


This Must Be the Place

by Likerealpeopledo



Series: Love in the Time of Trivia [2]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anniversary, Coda, Fluff and Humor, I am six points sure that you should read this, M/M, Origami, See what I did there, Tender Sex, ack! there's music too!, also if you like banter, an extension of the trivia 'verse, far more uses of the word hole than I was accustomed to previously, this must be the place for you, trivia to lovers, wrote so much M it trended E
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26478481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likerealpeopledo/pseuds/Likerealpeopledo
Summary: Patrick's former band plays a show at the Art House for its one year anniversary.A story about embracing joy and the future. And also cheese because this is David we're talking about here.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: Love in the Time of Trivia [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923790
Comments: 73
Kudos: 248





	This Must Be the Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [this_is_not_nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_not_nothing/gifts).



> This story is connected to my Trivia AU [The More You Know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23327971) but it could stand on its own. I do, however, strongly encourage a read of TMYK because I am pretty proud of that puppy. (There is no actual puppy.)

After the first three business-adjacent anniversary presents, David starts to get annoyed. Well maybe not annoyed, because the lobby does need a fresh coat of paint that first month, and he is encouraged to _choose_ the replacement mat for the entrance the second month. And it’s definitely hard to stay irritated when the Art House positively glows with satisfaction the third month after Patrick installs those new wall sconces in the back hallway, so David knows that even though Patrick lovingly addresses each anniversary card to the Art House, the gifts really are _for_ him.

Granted, a coupon to power-wash the front sidewalk written in frosting on an enormous heart-shaped chocolate chip cookie is meant for both the business and the partner in said business, so the month four gift finally gets it right.

Month five is steam-cleaning all the heavy screen-framing curtains on a weekend night and Patrick coming home with wild curls stuck to his forehead and sore arms that require copious massaging (okay, that one ends up as a gift for them both). The six month gift is Patrick having an uncomfortable yet unintentionally hilarious conversation with the Himalayan cat breeder about her use of the word “pussy” on all of her scarves’ labels. 

Months seven through eleven’s gifts are more of the same: rearranging complex displays while teetering on a ladder, chasing dust bunnies and scraping chewing gum out from under tens of rows of theater seats, mixing and pouring fresh sidewalk concrete (“What? Has no one ever told you that nine months is the concrete anniversary?”), and doing something unspeakable with a sump pump that David cannot even begin to contemplate, let alone understand. And Patrick does all of these tedious non-numbers-related things with a smile, a minimum of complaints, and sometimes the added bonus of kissing David breathless before, after, or during their completion. (Side note: Patrick is also very, very cute covered in concrete dust.)

Which is why the one year anniversary gift appears to be some kind of anomaly. As of five o’clock, it’s absolutely nothing.

They have been throwing around the idea of a party. A grand re-opening maybe (“Is it a harder launch, do you think?” “Mmm, the hardest,” David teased, trying not to burst with pride), something to say ‘thank you’ to their friends and family that does not involve a discount, but lately, Patrick has been somewhat avoidant on the issue. Which then brings up a litany of insecurities that had been successfully lying dormant for so many months he’d forgotten to keep watch for them: _Is Patrick having regrets?; Should he not have pressured him into that exhibit with the unfortunately explicit docking sculptures?; Has he finally hit Patrick’s limit of passive aggressive reminders to come in before noon?_

But then, on the 365th day anniversary of the Rose Art House opening, David is lured to the building by a strange call about a water main break on the day that they’re usually closed. He unlocks the front door to find thousands of white twinkling lights, scores of white paper cranes strung from the rafters (that David hopes Patrick is bringing out of storage rather than continuously forcing the elderly to recreate), origami lotus flowers in various sizes lining every pathway, and at least one hundred of David and Patrick’s closest friends and family currently crowding into their beloved space. 

The lobby is alive and vibrant, both full of people they love and people they tolerate; everyone in the midst of celebrating. Ray is acting as DJ, which makes sense because he must own his own speakers from hosting regular trivia, David guesses. The first three songs have solidified his doubts about Ray's music selection though, especially since he keeps leaving the iPod unattended so he can man the photo booth that he’s also operating.

Between photo set-ups, Ray turns on the mic to welcome newcomers and manages to confound David by saying, “I am deeply honored to have been chosen as tonight’s opening act,” before he plays the next tune. David quickly dismisses it as another one of Ray’s side business eccentricities and makes a beeline for the concession area in hopes of finding Patrick.

Stevie is tending bar behind a sign offering signature cocktails named after famous paintings and simultaneously trying to keep David’s mother from climbing onto her stool to sing selections from _Shoes, Glorious Shoes_ because she’s imbibed one too many Nudes Descending the Staircase. Everyone else is eating and laughing and mingling and it doesn’t take long for a distinct feeling of warmth to descend over David, because that’s really all he and Patrick have ever wanted for the Art House. (Yes, they also want long-term financial viability and sweeping success but. Warmth is enough for now.)

David finally happens upon Patrick and corners him by a well-stocked fondue station where George is swirling melted cheese over a low flame. “Oh, I see now why we couldn’t offer a discount,” David says. David accepts the fondue-covered bite of crisp green apple that he’s offered and tries not to swoon at the combination of fruit, emmentaler, and white wine, with the slightest hint of garlic. Oh God, there’s crusty artisan bread, too? “We clearly needed to do something to afford all this cheese.”

“Ah, he’s learning.” Patrick smiles and pulls David in for a kiss, his warm, wide hand finding purchase on the small of David’s back. “Happy Anniversary, David.” He’s dressed in a fitted blue button-down with contrasting trim on the inside of the collar, his usual riot of curls pomaded into brief submission. He looks edible, but the way he’s styled reminds David of something he can’t quite put his finger on. He’s probably thrown by the presence of cheese, because normally, he can put his finger on Patrick wherever and whenever he’d like.

“Happy anniversary.” David has the urge to rumple him, make him just a bit less perfect and put together, but instead he settles for brushing Patrick’s cheekbone with his thumb and kissing him again, this time with slightly more purpose.

Patrick tastes like wine and he feels exactly like home, settled and comforting and permanent in his presence. His hand slides up to David’s neck, swaying into his hips, ignoring fellow revelers so that it is just the two of them there under the light of glowing artificial stars.

For the moment David is swept away, buoyed by faith and familiarity and what he knows now is real, tangible love. But moments are just that, especially in the midst of controlled chaos, and they eventually pull apart, sighing. David leans back against a nearby high top table to catch his breath, almost accidentally crushing a decorative origami frog.

Patrick provides swift rescue to his creature creation, smoothing at a bent corner like a nurturing parent. “Sorry about the sheer volume of paper. I had the seniors go a little overboard with our projects once I realized it was the appropriate one year gift.”

David reminds himself that all that folding and creasing is good for Joan and Dot’s manual dexterity and Patrick is a very patient teacher. “I suppose that means that cash is also appropriate, so thank you in advance.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you are standing in what I planned to give you.”

David has to quell an urge to respond with something terrible and cheesy like _I thought I was standing_ next _to my gift_ but he’s not acting in a Hallmark movie, so he gives Patrick yet another kiss. “I love it, thank you. Although I can’t quite believe you threw me a surprise party and no one actually yelled ‘Surprise!’ That is so unlike you.”

“Ah, correction, I threw the Rose Art House a surprise party. We yelled when we got here to decorate and it was _touched_. Cried a little. The fondue stations and the art-inspired cocktails are for you.”

“Well I certainly appreciate all the boozed-up cheese I can handle.” David looks around, appraising the decor. He would have gone with slightly more flowers, and fewer cranes, but it certainly feels whimsical. “And there are no balloons.”

Patrick wrinkles his nose. “No, you hate balloons.”

“...And you didn’t get them because I hate them.”

“You’ve made it very clear how scarring your time with the birthday clown was, David. I have no intention of triggering you on our anniversary.”

“So you admit it’s _our_ anniversary.”

“Begrudgingly.” Patrick smiles. “And while we’re talking presents, I love my brand new, state of the art abacus.” 

“It’s a calculator and you know it. And now that I’m realizing it’s our paper anniversary, I’ll order you another ream of carbons, since we—” Patrick’s look of warning cuts him off. Who knew that carbon paper would retain the shadow of certain sex organs if one pressed hard enough against it. It certainly would have surprised the vendor whose invoice was impacted had they not caught it just in the nick of time. “Ooh! Maybe we should start a line of bespoke stationery.”

“With imprints of my…” Patrick makes an inelegant gesture toward his midsection as he trails off, slightly horrified. “Yeah, I don’t think that is the kind of be-speaking we want to be doing, David.”

“We can start a new trend. Think of it as more refined, analog sexting.” 

“Sure sure. But I think analog sexting was just showing up unannounced.”

“With your pants down?”

“If you were even wearing pants.”

David is briefly scandalized by the idea of people in breeches, or not in breeches as the case may be, exposing themselves to willing, participatory suitors under the light of a kerosene lamp. 

“But—” David starts to share the burden of this vision but Patrick smiles then in the way that slowly melts David, something knowing and cunning and so full of affection that it never ceases to clear away every iota of argument or doubt. His chest feels open again, just from a simple smile, although nothing is simple about the way that David loves him. 

It’s exactly the kind of feeling that makes marriage seem like the next logical step. Like, wake up in the morning, brush his teeth, kiss Patrick, get married. Regular Saturday. 

“Okay, we’ll do a dry run of the analog sexting stationary and see how we fare.” Patrick, always on task, squeezes his elbow in that reassuring way, like it’s just been entered into a cell on Patrick’s mental spreadsheet and tomorrow there will be samples of phallically haunted carbon paper ready for his perusal. 

“Perfect.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, David sees a flash of familiar red hair, and he notices Patrick making semi-frantic eye contact with Stevie over his shoulder.

“Did I just see Rachel?”

“No!” Patrick half-shouts, just a hair too loud before he figures out to dial back the overt panic. “She’s touring with her new band, remember?"

“Um, yes. Which happens to be why I inquired.” 

Weird and jumpy isn’t Patrick’s norm but before he can get to the bottom of anything, David is distracted by Jocelyn and Roland steering him away to officially wish them well. They are followed by Joan, giving David the business as only she can, although when David looks to Patrick to share a grin, he’s disappeared back into the crowd. 

“So when are you coming back to center for dance lessons, Davy? We miss having your giraffe-like neck on the premises. With you not around and Edgar in the hospital, Ted over there has me dancing with the Swiffer again.”

Ted, who is completely within earshot, pokes his head into the conversation. “Now, Joan, I thought I asked you not to refer to Alexis as the Swiffer. Let’s not get _swept_ up in calling people names.”

“She’s a stick! And half as graceful!” 

David would love to stay and rubberneck but unfortunately, his mother finally breaks Stevie’s hold and begins tottering on one of their Corinthian leather bar stools, pontificating to a group of gathered Jazzagals. 

“And lovely Patrick will be consecrating this mercantile establishment with what is destined to be a most memorable—oh my dearest progeny, there you are!” She sloshes her drink in greeting, glancing down to where David has stationed himself between the stool and her likely precipitous drop from said stool in Alexander Wang heels. “Why are you making that face? Tonight is an eve of celebration, your visage should not be so dour.”

“I’m sorry but potential hospital visits cause my visage to become very dour.” He grabs his mother around the waist and deposits her on solid ground, hailing down his father to assign him the Herculean task of keeping her off of the furniture.

“You’ve turned positively dyspeptic in your advancing years, dear. Perhaps partaking in more of this Bacchanalian revue will loosen your shoulders a bit before we adjourn to—“

“David!” It’s the Brewers, who must have driven in for the evening and look very excited to be there.

He spends a few minutes chatting amiably with Patrick’s parents, without Patrick who seems to have disappeared yet again, mostly updating them on the expansion of the gallery, some of their newer artists, and Patrick’s recent victory in the baseball arena.

“Patrick tells us that you’re becoming a rabid fan,” Clint segues and David finds himself blushing. David is a rabid fan of his boyfriend in tight pants, the Callipygian nature of his ass being basically born for even the most polyester-inspired, fashionably-challenged wardrobe pieces. He never imagined grass stains as an aphrodisiac before. Which is probably nothing he can actually admit to his boyfriend’s parents.

“Oh yes, positively rabid,” David agrees, hoping that his eyebrows aren’t betraying him by locating themselves in his hairline. “Balls!” Nope. Probably the wrong visual to bring up. “Bases!” Also not great, but at least it’s still germane to the conversation. “Hitting! So much hitting!”

“Yes, Patrick’s batting average is very good this season, isn’t it?” Marcy chirps and both parents do him the favor of smiling politely so that he’s only mostly relieved when Stevie appears at his elbow to interrupt and the Brewers turn away to chat with Alexis and Twyla.

“Seriously, why was Patrick doing eyelid Morse code with you earlier? Is he up to something?” He interrogates, the second Patrick’s parents are out of earshot.

“David, he planned an entire surprise party. There are _surprises.”_

He makes what he hopes is an aggrieved face and Stevie has the audacity to laugh at him. So, nothing at all has changed.

She is holding one of their signature cocktails, Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife, and a small box, which she offers out to David. “Here. I got you guys a present.” 

“Please tell me that this is a very large joint because nothing about your earlier explanation was reassuring.”

“Okay, it’s a very large joint. Just open it,” she urges, pressing the box into his hands. 

Untying the simple red ribbon, David removes the lid to discover both a medium-sized joint and a pre-inked stamp, much like the one that they used to use for Shut the Front Dior, and that Stevie vocally and fervently hated. “What is this?”

“A minotaur. What does it look like?” He likes that nothing has really changed with Stevie since she resigned to run a motel for reasons she can barely explain. With David, she will always be judgmental and irritable and sarcastic and perfect. “It’s an Art House stamp and before you get weird, I know how much you hate that you couldn’t get that wax seal. Plus I hear that stamping is a very efficient way to put your name on things.” She looks around. “Although you tend to do that pretty well without any ink.”

David isn’t going to cry over a stamp. He just isn’t. Which is what he needs to inform the tears pricking up behind his eyes. “Well, it is. Very time-saving. Is the font—”

“—Comic Sans? Abso-fucking-lutely. I’m not that good of a friend.” Stevie gives him a sharp elbow, like they’re still sitting at the trivia table. David sniffles, a tad undignified, to hold back whatever sound and/or substance is threatening to emerge from his face. “I never thought I’d look around this lobby and not see a soul-sucking hell hole. Look what you guys made _work_ ,” Stevie says.

David clutches his hands to his chest. “So sweet. Not a hell hole. The highest praise.” 

“Baby steps, David.” She taps the box and takes a healthy swig of her cocktail. The stirrer is a painting-inspired tentacle and David hopes they got a good deal on those from the wholesaler. “But we are definitely smoking that thing after Patrick’s big surprise.”

“Wait. What?”

Which is when Stevie performs her favorite sleight of hand and fucking magically disappears. He hears Patrick’s voice calling from down the hallway and somehow the entire party manages to relocate itself to the big theater, the one with the stage that Patrick has not yet convinced David would be perfect for Open Mic Nights. 

But the once empty stage is occupied by the previous members of the Button Downs: Rachel at the drum kit, Dev and Judah with bass and guitar, and of course, Patrick.

“I knew I saw Rachel!” David says loud enough to startle Gwen, who is filing in right in front of him and Rachel responds by giving him a little wave.

Patrick all but vibrates at the front of the stage, cradling his guitar, restless energy written in every line of his body. It takes a few moments for what is about to happen to register with David; he must be slowed down from Stevie’s uncharacteristic sentimentality and the heady promise of celebrating what they’ve built together.

Never quite taking his eyes off of David, Patrick does a little patter about getting the band back together. “For one night only, to celebrate the one year anniversary of a beautiful business and _building_ ,” Patrick emphasizes, looking David squarely in the eye. 

David can’t feel his own knees.

The last time Patrick performed with the Button Downs was before his surgery, before his treatment, before everything. Before David, as if he is an epoch in Patrick’s history. And while the entire evening has been a surprise, Patrick standing behind a microphone feels like a firecracker has just gone off in David’s chest. There is probably a German word for that feeling, the one where you’re thrilled to be vindicated, but still terrified at the prospect of being right. Anyhow, David doesn’t have the time to find it, because Patrick. Is. On. Stage.

David has never actually _seen_ Patrick perform live before—singing along to the car radio and in the shower probably don’t count—and the idea that David is about to watch Patrick revisit what was once his whole life is a bit...unsettling, to say the least.

Not only that, Patrick is about to revisit a life that David once attempted to give back to him, even going so far as to break Patrick’s heart (and his own) so that he might be able to do so. Their short break-up has been resolved, thousands of times over. The bruises are no longer tender; the mended bones no longer ache when it rains. They are happy now, and strong. So it’s fine. This is fine.

Just, this is a side of Patrick that David has never actually seen. What if he’s terrible? Okay, he won’t be terrible. That isn’t possible. Probably. But what if he is? Or worse, what if he is not at all terrible? What if David realizes it was a mistake allowing his fears to lie dormant and Patrick wants back what he used to have?

David is talking himself on and off of several different mental ledges when Marcy Brewer appears at his side, followed closely by his own parents. 

“They’ve been rehearsing via Zoom for months,” Marcy tells him. “Don’t worry, David, he’s got this.”

“Hmm, of course.” And Patrick probably does have this, because he goes into all battles prepared, and his wanting to do this tonight is the mark of a wound well-healed. Right? It doesn’t stop David from feeling a bit nervous though, knowing that he’s about to watch Patrick try on his old life—even if it is for one night. This is a life David isn’t a part of, and a Patrick he has never known.

David is so taken by seeing Patrick on stage that he barely hears Patrick joke about how the band has been apart so long, they didn’t even practice their own songs; they’re going to do some covers. 

“And just to increase the degree of difficulty, we’re taking requests,” Rachel says into her mic while shooting Patrick a rather pointed look, “because nothing knocks the dust off your performance like having no idea what is coming next.” But then she smiles at Patrick, who is gripping the neck of his guitar like it owes him money. “Seriously though, it’s great to have you back, Patrick.”

And then they start, playing a few verses of _Jolene_ for Ronnie, a Neil Young song for Patrick’s dad, and even an acoustic version of _XO_ , which Patrick plays on the accordion, complete with an adorably stompy little foot keeping time.

Patrick is good. Patrick is good and with each passing moment, he settles a bit more into himself.

He makes it easy to see how the person who just sang the hell out of Beyonce to a room of friends and family is the exact same person who koalas David at night with his knees up over David’s hips and his arms threaded through to his back. He is the exact same person who complains vociferously about the price of napkins (seriously, what are they charging for those things?; it’s a fucking constant refrain from anyone who owns this place) but still buys the slightly medium expensive ones that David likes. He is the exact same person who refuses to give up and will not allow their fledgling business partnership to fail, even if it means late nights and power-washing sidewalks and mountains of expensive cheese, anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

He really is Patrick.

As _XO_ transitions into the intro of _True Colors_ , David can see how Patrick starts to feed more and more off of the crowd. Maybe using songs that everyone is familiar with was what hooked them at first, but it seems now that Patrick has managed to hook them all on his own.

Onstage, Patrick is arresting—all loud brown eyes and warm rich voice and rolled up sleeves, forearms ablaze. But mixed up in that, there’s a new energy pouring out of Patrick; something full and rich and heightened. Something magical. Magnetic. Relaxed.

And with Patrick more and more relaxed, midway through a verse of _Handle With Care_ , David finds himself finally able to release the breath he’s been holding. Patrick can be both of these people—the partner and the performer; he doesn’t have to be one or the other. 

In some ways, Patrick is like his intricate origami creations: folded and creased and shaped into different forms, but his core element always always stays the same. His heart and his soul and his beauty are the paper and for David, they remain constant. 

Onstage there's a small pause while Patrick switches from electric back to his acoustic guitar and fuck, David has a really talented boyfriend.

“So when I first got to Schitt’s Creek, I was really, really lost.” There’s a collective _aww_ from the crowd. Patrick clears his throat then, adjusting his mic. “Oh, hey, I bet you guys didn’t know that you were also coming to my therapy session tonight, but the tickets were free, so. You got what you paid for.” Patrick jokes and everyone laughs. David, on the other hand, freezes in place. Patrick doing public emotion is basically his kryptonite, so he leans a bit on Mrs. Brewer just in case, bracketed by his parents on the other side. “But in all seriousness, I was a mess. I didn’t know where I was going or what I was doing, and then I joined this rag-tag group of trivia players, and it...it changed my life. David, you changed my life.”

Rachel brings in a beat and suddenly Joan, Dot, and the other members of the Schitt’s Creek Senior Center Choir file onstage and form a semi-circle. David feels his own mother clutching at his arm. 

“So, I know you have very strict rules about being sung to, but I figured there was safety in numbers and since you really can’t stop speaking to all of us, I brought in some accomplices. Anyway, I couldn’t decide between this next song and Drake’s _Best I Ever Had_ , so Rachel broke the tie. You’re welcome.”

David hopes he’s joking about Drake but it’s possible he isn’t; David stops debating it as familiar chords fill the air. Patrick’s warm voice joins the choir _,_ “Home is where I want to be; pick me up and turn me ‘round,” Patrick sings, confident, easy, _him._

Patrick always points out _Naive Melody_ when it comes on the radio, saying the Talking Heads song is underrated for its simplicity. That everyone has heard it but they never remember its name. To David, it always sounds like being in the car, with Patrick’s hand resting on David’s thigh and the windows barely rolled down, as they go off in search of the next magical taco stand or ice cream parlor. It sounds like _them_.

> _“You got a face with a view_
> 
> _I'm just an animal looking for a home and_
> 
> _Share the same space for a minute or two_
> 
> _And you love me till my heart stops_
> 
> _Love me till I'm dead_
> 
> _Eyes that light up_
> 
> _Eyes look through you_
> 
> _Cover up the blank spots,”_

The choir joins in on the closing “oooh” and David is pinned down by Patrick’s too direct gaze, because he knows Patrick isn’t just singing this to him, he is singing it _about_ him. It’s a promise and a declaration and David can feel it in his bones, in his soul, down to his toes. He has spent so many years not believing forever could be possible but today he knows it is completely within his reach.

“Thank you, thanks everybody,” Patrick says as the applause finally dies down and the choir files off stage. David hears Rachel say into her mic, almost in a mumble, “Geez, Brewer, where were you hiding this guy all those years?”

Out in the audience, Clint answers her question for the benefit of both David and the Roses. “I’m not sure where he was hiding, but I definitely know where we found him.” 

David glances over to Marcy, who nods, her eyes wet with unshed tears. His own parents beam proudly. “You make him happy,” she says, patting David’s arm. “Look at him.”

As if David could take his eyes off him. Or stop thinking about how he might actually be responsible for that happiness. 

By the time Patrick announces the encore, David understands the entire concept of being a groupie _viscerally_. If the Brewers weren’t still right next to him, he’d be growling at Patrick and luring him back to a seedy motel...in which his family currently lives. Okay. Being a Band Aid can wait. Tonight, he’ll just be an extremely attentive and grateful boyfriend.

Patrick comes off-stage still jittery with adrenaline, and as David watches him wend his way through a sea of well-wishers, he realizes how much of this past year has been its own gift and something that he would never, ever return. Not for store credit, not for a full refund, not for interest accrued. It shouldn’t feel this easy or this good. Running a business together should feel more like work, but it doesn’t. It feels like love. 

And tonight has made that feel all the more real.

“You were just...so good,” is all David can think to say, because it’s been on a loop in his brain for the last forty minutes. He throws his arms around Patrick’s neck, kissing him and savoring the sweet bow of his lips, wishing they were in a more private location than a roomful of what seems to be every person they’ve ever met. He hates that they know so many people right now. He wants Patrick. Alone.

“Good I’m glad. I was worried about the mix but Joan found a way around it so I think it worked out pretty well, don’t you?”

“Yes definitely.” David pets at Patrick’s forearms, which he’s always known were powerful, but watching them in their...natural habitat, well. Fuck. It’s a lot. Too much. David might need to sit down.

“You okay there?” 

He nods, vehement, still not disconnecting from any part of Patrick, since he’s already partially wound around his neck and is now holding onto his arm possessively. He thinks about maybe hooking him at the ankle just in case. He wants to wrap himself around Patrick like a vine and encompass him fully. “Yes, yes. I think...I think you might be my Mariah Carey?” 

There is no might be. Patrick is, he definitely is. 

“David.” Patrick’s hand goes to his mouth to cover his smile as he shines incandescent under the praise. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. And all I had to was get the band back together, fly everyone in, arrange a bunch of cover songs, rehearse for months with a group of senior citizens—” David briefly unwinds from Patrick just to maintain the proper distance with which to gape at him, aghast. Faux aghast, but still.

“And here I was going to lure you back to my seedy motel and…” David suggestively walks his fingers down Patrick’s arm toward his belt.

The tips of Patrick’s ears go pink as he stills David’s hand. “Okay, my mom is like twenty feet away talking to Ronnie. Neither of them would let that slide.”

“Luckily, I will also settle for an analog sext later, if sir is so inclined.” 

Patrick perks back up. “In or out of your breeches?”

They wind up celebrating for a few minutes in the supply closet like common lowly employees, not high-brow business owners, with Patrick’s tongue in David’s mouth, and David’s hands everywhere he can reach. At one point, Patrick pulls away, just enough that his lips and the tip of his nose still brush against David’s. “Up there? It felt different.”

“It felt like you,” David answers, honest, hands on the muscles of Patrick’s back, grounding himself. Grounding them both. And for a second he feels his earlier tears returning, the happy, relieved tears he’s spent most of the night fighting back. 

Patrick’s eyes are a little watery too maybe, but he smiles, smiles like the sunrise, like renewal, like a brand new beginning. He answers in a whisper. “Yeah. Maybe that’s it.”

The festivities last deep into the night Schitt’s Creek time, as Clint and Marcy Brewer lead line dances in the big theater and The Sunbathers stay flowing. It’s almost 1 a.m. before David is hugging Rachel good-bye and Patrick is so tired he’s swaying on his feet.

David does some cursory locking up; there is still paper everywhere, even though most of the guests left with some kind of memento (Gwen left with an armful of origami frogs that David thinks he might need to call Paper Wildlife Control to rescue). Maybe they’ll keep the lights up a little bit longer anyway; David thinks he may want to spend more time basking in the glow of tonight’s atmosphere, to keep a visual reminder of the way Patrick was lit from within, the way he always manages to light David up.

He shepherds an almost staggering Patrick out to their waiting car along with some gift bags. The moment Patrick straps himself into the passenger seat, he immediately zonks out, head against the window, mouth open emitting soft snores. He succumbs to what has to be bone-deep exhaustion from both preparation and his performance, if he couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to argue about the radio station. 

David lets him sleep, his hand balanced on Patrick’s thigh as he drives the quiet roads back to their apartment. Even though Mariah’s on the radio, he turns it down to a pleasing hum, mostly listening to Patrick snore. The quiet gives him time to process. What if he is the reason Patrick doesn’t want to try for a new band, for a return to music, for a return to everything he used to know? Or maybe, conversely, he’s the reason Patrick is doing it again at all. David has experienced what love can do, how much a little support can free you to pursue your dreams. The question is a blunt instrument in David’s hand, something he turns over and over in hopes of making it feel less like it could bludgeon them both.

Blissfully unaware, Patrick snorts a little and readjusts against the window without waking up as David pulls into their assigned parking place

David walks around to the passenger side, briefly contemplating whether a very virile fireman's carry or a good old fashioned piggy-back ride will make it easier to haul their bags and one hundred and fifty pounds of floppy, sleepy Patrick up the stairs.

Before he can decide though, Patrick begins to blink awake. Disoriented, he rubs at his face, licks his lips, and looks around, grasping clumsily for the door handle when he notices David on the other side. “Hi.”

“Hi,” David says, offering both hands so Patrick can use them for leverage to extract himself from the car in his post-slumbering haze. He’s a little like a newborn calf, a bit wobbly and uncoordinated from the hard nap. David thinks he might still carry him up the stairs.

Patrick does find his footing, eventually, although he bumps his hip against David’s by hanging onto his shoulder while still keeping their hands clasped. They stumble over each other's feet a few times as they get their bearings and yes, maybe it would be easier to let go, but neither of them make any move to do so. The trip up the three flights is cumbersome but ultimately worth it as David kisses the top of Patrick’s head, attempting to open the front door still in their interlocking position. 

It reminds David of the night they moved to this apartment, how tired they were lugging furniture up all these steps, how no one helping them paid any attention to the diagrams David made about layout and placement so they had to move it all again once it was up here. But he’s also reminded of what a relief it was to close the door behind themselves and know this was their refuge, the sanctuary that they shared, and it was as safe as it was quiet, and theirs alone.

Once inside, David steers Patrick over to the couch, crouching down to pull off both Patrick’s boots and his socks, a pair David has never seen, new ones covered in uncharacteristically brightly-colored chevrons. Almost two years together and Patrick still manages to surprise him in the most minute ways. “Stage socks.” Patrick senses the question mid-yawn, giving David’s neck and shoulders an ungainly pat. “David, you don’t have to undress me, I can—”

“No, you’ve done...a lot tonight and it’s my turn to take care of you. Will you please let me?” 

Patrick’s forehead crinkles, like he’s somehow considering it. Patrick ceding control happens oh-so-rarely; it may be its own kind of comet. “Okay. I’d like that.”

“Good. Consider this your present.” David doesn’t know if he has the ability to execute a grand gesture the way Patrick can; he isn’t even sure what the equivalent to making himself vulnerable in front of a roomful of people might be. But he understands better now, thanks to Patrick, that love doesn’t have a rate of exchange. It’s a constant push and pull, give and take. It’s everything. David wants to give Patrick everything.

He finishes removing Patrick’s overtly loud stage socks, kissing the smooth skin at his ankle as he sets one foot down and moves to the other. He doesn’t remove any other clothing though, pulling a now barefoot Patrick gently up and off the sofa to lead him toward the bathroom; Patrick allows himself to be lead, pliant despite his earlier protest. 

They’re barely through the bathroom door when Patrick’s hands are under the waistband of David’s Givenchy, fingers scrabbling against bare skin. It feels like Patrick is waking up, just like he did on stage. Like he did when he came to Schitt’s Creek. Like he did when they opened the Art House. Like he does countless times with David. Patrick’s mouth is warm and his kiss is sweet but targeted, honing in on exactly what he wants: David.

David allows himself to follow Patrick’s lead, to chase the sweetness of his mouth, the glorious slide of his tongue, until he realizes he is slowly being led off-track. 

He pulls back. “We will get to this, I promise, but let’s get you cleaned up first,” David says, stepping backward and finding himself pressed against the sink. Patrick coming alive and getting all dommy wasn’t really in his plans, although he can’t say he minds the change. “And you were half-asleep a second ago.”

“Huh, well, I seem to be catching my second wind,” Patrick murmurs into David’s neck, sliding his hands over the small of David’s back, and drawing him in with softly insistent kisses. “But I’d like it if you’d tell me more about this present of yours.”

David is winging it really, not understanding at the beginning of the night what the end of the night would bring, so it isn’t as if he has some grand plan. He is very capable of improvisation, however. “What if I show you instead?”

“I could agree to those terms,” Patrick says, reaching for his belt buckle, but David stops him with a hand to the forearm. 

“Ah, no, that is for me to do please,” and David does, beginning with the belt buckle and leading Patrick through a languid removal of the rest of his clothing, kissing each bit of skin he uncovers. It doesn’t take much to coax Patrick under the steamy jets of the shower as David undresses himself and climbs in, wordlessly directing Patrick to hand him the bottle of Patrick’s favorite verbena shampoo so David can wash his hair.

Patrick submits easily to the ministrations, bowing his head and murmuring nonsense into David’s damp skin. Since David’s hands are occupied, Patrick takes the opportunity to entertain his own.

“I loved everything about tonight,” David babbles as Patrick strokes at his cock, which isn’t how this was supposed to go. He wishes he had better words, better ways to explain what it meant, what it felt like to witness Patrick connecting to music again. It lit up pathways in David that only sex has been able to do before, and he wasn’t even the one performing. “But I want to make _you_ feel good. Anything you want. Anything.”

Patrick makes a desperate little noise in the back of his throat, overwhelmed by what’s available. “David, you can do anything and it makes me feel good. Just…” he waves his hand in a vague approximation of _feel free to ravish me,_ or at least that is how David chooses to read it in his current state.

“But if I laid out before you a...a…sexual smorgasbord.” In David’s defense, Patrick’s fingers are very lightly traversing the head of his cock. He can barely find English words to string together. He may even start speaking in tongues. “A veritable buffet of delights. What do you choose?” he asks through a groan. This is really fucking unfair.

“Mmm, a buffet,” he murmurs, landing a sloppy kiss on David’s breastbone, leaving trails of soapy lather in his wake. He looks up at David then, one eye closed as he does so. “I’d like the number six with the wonton soup and the egg roll.”

David moans, both out of pleasure and pain. Patrick shrugs, the picture of innocence.

“Well I know what you like,” David starts, collecting his wits one by one. His legs are a little shaky but he is slowly regaining control. He details all the things he knows Patrick loves, that make him clutch at the sheets and cry out David’s name, that make him come so hard that David gets pushed over his own edge too quickly. Patrick listens attentively, a sly, feral look developing in his eye. David wonders if he has the same one in his own. “So what do you want Patrick? Tell me.”

“I just want you,” he states as fact. Patrick always does this, just says the right thing, the too sincere thing, the thing that rings truest in David’s chest.

 _I just want you,_ four words that manage to encompass everything about the past year. Well, David can give Patrick exactly what he wants and he’ll keep giving it, even if everything else around them changes.

David finds his voice and responds, “I think that can be arranged.”

He kisses Patrick hard under the warm spray of the shower then, levering him backward and using his own height to his advantage. It leaves Patrick no choice but to give in this time—and Patrick finally, finally does. David kisses him until Patrick is just hanging on, clinging to David, allowing David to give and give and give.

David pulls back and smiles when he notices Patrick starting to stroke at his own foreskin until he slowly exposes his most sensitive skin underneath. David’s cock twitches in anticipation. God, he loves making Patrick come. “Since you couldn’t decide, I’m officially revoking your menu selection rights now—let me?”

Patrick leans forward to kiss him again, softly. “Always.”

In a well-worn dance, David towels them both off and leads Patrick across their apartment. In a way it all feels intimately familiar but somehow tonight it is charged with something brand new—like David has unlocked this last secret compartment of Patrick. They tumble into bed, and David presses Patrick into the mattress.

“Let me.” David whispers, and this time it isn’t a question. Then David’s mouth moves lower, licking Patrick open, pressing in past the ever loosening muscle. David wants to be inside him but he knows how much Patrick loves this, how much he begs and whimpers and pleads when David’s mouth and breath are still providing the only friction. How good that is for both of them.

Making inarticulate but appreciative noises above David’s head, Patrick mumbles something that sounds like, “you’re going to give me a heart attack,” as David tongues and teases at Patrick’s rim, surrounded by the roaring of Patrick’s pulse. He can feel his heartbeat everywhere, a drum beat keeping pace with Patrick's racing need.

“Can I tell you something?” Patrick whispers like a secret. They still have those, maybe, things they can only say in the dark. Even after tonight, after demonstrating to everyone precisely how deeply they feel about each other and what they’ve made together, there are still things that belong only to them.

“Anything,” David says, kissing delicate skin and feeling Patrick’s thighs clench at the sensation. “You can tell me anything,” he repeats, the words reverberating against Patrick’s sweet pink hole, his trembling legs, the cleft of his ass.

“I wish you’d fuck me,” Patrick responds and David grips Patrick’s hips tightly enough to bruise, swirls of fingerprints blooming against pink skin, holding him still, evidence that he’s been here, is here now, will always be here. “Now,” Patrick whispers, pants, moans, over and over into the darkened room. “Please.”

“Yes, of course, yes.” David answers, stroking down Patrick’s hamstring muscle. Patrick has insanely strong thighs, Bond villain thighs, thighs that could crush a watermelon if he had the occasion to do so (okay, they might have to try that later) and David loves being between them, stroking them, encouraging them.

Turning onto his side, Patrick backs up until he’s almost flush against David from neck to hip. It isn’t long before David is wishing he could replace the sweet curl of his slick fingers with the slow hot slide of his cock, leaking precome and aching to fuck into Patrick, push past his rim, bury himself inside. 

Patrick gasps an affirmation, urging David on.

He can’t get Patrick close enough, kissing the back of his neck along the ridge of his hairline, behind his ear as he sets an easy pace, knowing that in his position, Patrick can feel every inch, every movement, every breath. David wants to fill Patrick with the care and attention that he has showered on David, wants him to feel known and validated and needed. He wants Patrick to have what he wants, always. To always be this close and this full.

It builds. The sensations, the whirl of emotions, the thrum of electricity under David’s skin—they all build until it’s too much to hold in. 

“I love you,” Patrick chants as David comes first, their hands working in tandem to send Patrick soaring to new and impossible heights not soon after. 

Afterward, they take turns wiping each other down and wrap around each other in a mess of damp sheets and sweat-slick limbs. Patrick’s curls have dried every which way and there is a particularly strident one falling over his forehead, mocking David a little with its perfect coil. David helps it along by winding it around his index finger while Patrick closes his eyes and gives a happy little sigh.

David drops a kiss on Patrick’s shoulder. “I feel like this is where I should thank you for running away to Schitt’s Creek and not driving like, far north. Or to America.”

Patrick gives a little shiver. “Ah, well, thank you for having a really aptly named town.”

“Hmm. Thank you for lurking near the baseball diamonds so Gwen could find you and send you to us.”

“Well, thank _you_ for standing out in a crowd.”

“Indeed. Thank you for coming early and staying late and…”

“David, I think we’re starting to sound like Alanis Morissette.” Patrick jokes but then David watches as his face gets that familiar stillness about it. The stillness that marks when Patrick can’t hold back the sincerity any longer. David is glad now for it, even when it makes him nervous. “David.”

“Yes?” Emotion is already welling up in the back of David’s throat, in his chest, behind his eyes. 

Patrick props his chin on David’s chest. “Thank you for being you. I don’t know where…”

David can see Patrick’s eyes are getting damp, too. “Where you’d be? Yeah, I don’t know where I’d be either.”

Patrick kisses him then, something deep and searing and fierce, proving once again exactly where he is. The urgency of the kiss fades after a few moments, only to be replaced by something more familiar, more sweet, more lush, but with the same easy heat. It’s not much different than the sex they just had, the way they can still trade those feelings without words.

Lying in quiet for a few minutes, they listen to the wind knocking lightly against the shutters until finally David speaks.

“I just…I can’t stop seeing you up on that stage.”

Next to him, Patrick tenses, eyes opening. “We don’t have to use it for any more Open Mic Nights if you don’t want to. It really was just a one-time thing.”

“No, it’s not that.” If Patrick shines the way he did tonight, they should have a thousand more Open Mic Nights. “I think maybe you should do it more often.”

Patrick props himself up on his elbow. His hair is wild on one side where it rubbed against the sheets so David pets it down, to no avail. “Okay. But what are you saying? I’ve already told you how I feel about this.”

“No, I know. I know how you feel. Or how you felt. But that was...you do reserve the right to change your mind, you know. About this. And your clothes. And maybe your haircut, with prior approval and photographic examples on similar face shapes. But not…” he tries to get his eyes and his free hand to convey _not me_ without his voice getting in on the action.

Patrick must understand because he leans over and kisses the bridge of David’s nose. “I would never change my mind about you, David.”

“But are you sure it isn't what you want? I mean, you could have both, you know, if you wanted. Because tonight, you felt so much more...you than I’ve ever heard before with your music. Like it was different.”

“Yeah. I think you’re right, it is different.” 

“Because of all this?” David does what has to be construed as a seductive full-body shimmy. 

Patrick nods and very wryly says, “Why yes, David, you sure have changed me.”

“Hmm, I do take full credit for all positive changes.” David knows from the tone that Patrick is at least half-joking. “I will not however claim the brief, misguided attempt at a mustache.”

“Okay David, your feelings on that are well documented.” Yes they are, because David made Patrick put a clause into their business associate’s agreement (henceforth known as the mustache rider) that all facial hair decisions must go through a three part vetting process from now on. Their lawyer was both flummoxed and amused. “It was for charity. And anyway, my mustache was fun.”

“That is not the word I’d use.” What Patrick expected the men’s health movement to do with an upper lip full of sad wispy growth was beyond him.

“Ah, but you liked how it felt against—” Patrick slides his finger down David’s chest, landing at his pubic bone. Okay, yes, there was a certain...something that affected him. Mustache rides are a thing for a reason, he can’t help it.

“Yes, yes, I did.” David reluctantly guides Patrick’s finger away from his now interested cock. Damn him and his sense memory. “But come on, you’re changing the subject.”

“Yep.” Patrick admits, maybe the slightest bit bashful.

“How come?” David asks, gentle. Time has given David the benefit of learning to be more direct with Patrick when he starts to close himself off, to hedge and self-protect. Maybe time has also given Patrick the benefit of learning to be vulnerable without judging himself for it. 

“Playing with everyone tonight was nice, don’t get me wrong.” David lets the apparent understatement pass without comment or interjection. “But maybe the reason it felt different was because I know exactly what I want now.” Patrick refuses to relinquish any bit of eye contact, causing something warm to pool in David’s belly. The feeling of both being known and knowing someone else, deeply.

“What do you want?” David knows the answer because he feels it every day. Because it brushes his skin, lights up darkened rooms, chases away demons from years past. He feels it, everyday, right in his bones.

“You. This. What we have.” His voice is soft and his breath tickles at David’s skin. “Two years ago, if I closed my eyes, I couldn’t picture anything further than what it said on our touring schedule. And that definitely came out when I was on stage.”

David thinks of listening to Patrick’s albums, looking for his Patrick, and not finding him. Thinks about how jarring it would be to not find _yourself_ but to be right there, in the mix of it. He strokes Patrick's arm, then his chest, wanting to comfort a Patrick that may not even exist today, but wishes he’d had something different.

“It’s just, I think you’re meant for more than just being the Schitt’s Creek Senior Center Choir Director.” 

“The SC Squared needs me, David.”

“Mhm. That’s quite evident.”

“They sounded great tonight!” They did. Everything about tonight was just as it should have been. There is nothing David would change, not a minute, and he had zero hand in its planning. That is, after all, the mark of a successful party. “I’ll think about it. I mean, it did feel good. Being up there, the crowd. Singing songs everybody knows. But is it...David, we have a very full plate as it is. Rehearsals and gigs and travel eat up a lot of time.”

“No, I know. But I mean, you’ve seen me drawing in my journal and those aren’t going in the Met, but there’s still time for me to do it.” David looks over at Patrick, at the face that somehow managed to slip in through a back door and carve out its own space in his life, in his heart. A face he can see forever with, when they’re both ready. David knows he’s ready. “It’s up to you. If you want to play again, we’ll find a way to make it work for us both, right? I have no intention of being your Yoko Ono.”

“First of all, Yoko gets an unfair rap. The Beatles were already well on their way to a break up before she came on the scene.” Patrick sits up a bit. “She really just showed John another way to be and made him happy in a time when he wasn’t. I don’t know, David, you’re sort of the perfect Yoko Ono.”

“Am I offended? Should I be offended?”

“No, hear me out. You’re artistic, the way you dress is very avant-garde, you’d look fantastic naked on my album cover, and your throat-singing is top notch.” He smiles. “David, you didn’t break up the Beatles, or anywhere close. We were well on our way and if I never play in another band again, it’s because it’s just not meant for me.”

“But not because you think I don’t want you to want that, right? Because I want what you want. I’ll have what you’re having.”

“I know.” Patrick curls around David, his head balanced on David’s chest as he traces small shapes on the crease of David’s opposite elbow. “I always think of something this music critic, Lester Bangs, said—”

“Bangs?” David interrupts. “Are you sure he wasn’t a porn star?”

“I’m sure, David. Philip Seymour Hoffman played him in Almost Famous. He is definitely a real guy.”

Patrick’s lips start to go a bit thin with a brief flicker of annoyance and David knows to pull back. “Okay please tell me what a real live person not a porn star Lester Bangs said.”

“He said, and I’m paraphrasing, that music chooses you, and maybe I...didn’t get chosen.” Patrick looks up at David, his cheekbones shaded by a thick fringe of gold-tipped lashes. “I got chosen by something better.”

“Ah,” David says, finally, all his breath catching directly in his sternum. He lets it out in little bursts. It might be the only way to keep from crying. “Yes, I did too.”

There is really nothing that can prepare you for being chosen by Patrick Brewer, but once you are, you know you’re exactly where you belong.

“I guess that settles it, then, huh?” Patrick asks, breaking into David’s thoughts.

“It does, yes.” Looking around the room like it’s the first time he’s seen it, David gestures to a gift bag that’s been strewn off to the side in their sex flurry. “What’s that? Not another present. It’s too much.” He doesn’t mean that last thing. He wants all the presents and the ability to lighten the mood.

“It’s for me. From my mom. She dropped it off before the party.” Patrick is already turning bright pink. It remains very cute. “It’s nothing.”

“What is it?”

“I’m ...not telling you.”

“You’re not telling me?” 

“David, I swear. Let me not tell you.”

Never in the history of—“I don’t think I can do that.”—David’s voice may rise.

“I think you should.”

“My god. What is it? A body?” Okay, his voice definitely rises.

“Yes, my mom gave me a body as a gift. You’re an accessory now.”

“Well. Since I’ll clearly be incriminated, I think you should show me the body.” 

Patrick, exasperated. “It isn’t a body!”

“Then what is it?!?”

“Ugh.” Patrick and his round, naked tush cross the room and quickly, angrily snatch the brightly colored bag off the floor, dropping it unceremoniously onto the bed and into David’s lap. “Now. When I show you this, remember that she wasn’t wearing her glasses and she was concerned about my baseball muscle aches. And she did say you should help me use it.”

“Oh my god, it’s definitely a body.”

“No. Much, much worse.” He then parts the sea of blue tissue paper to reveal a box clearly labeled _prostate massager_ ** _,_ ** unable to meet David’s eyes.

David swallows then pets Patrick’s arm, who pulls away, unconsoled. “Well, this is not nothing, is it?”

Patrick grabs the present out of David’s hands and practically shoves the box and bag under the bed. “So we never have to speak of this again right?”

David dances his fingers across Patrick’s shoulder and pauses for a moment, taking in Patrick’s pouty face and his very pouty body language. He looks ready to take his…well, toy and go home. “So does it have, like, settings?”

The lower lip juts out further. “Like Brain Wipe? And Kill Me Now? I certainly hope so.”

“So do you think that state of the art prostate massager would be classified as either digital or, or, anal—” David can barely get the word out over his own laughter and okay, yes, horror. “Analog sexting?”

He pauses momentarily. “Both?” Patrick asks with a definite lack of confidence but what is also the beginning of a genuine smile. 

David snorts. They laugh so hard and for so long that Patrick gives himself the hiccups and has to drink water out of the wrong side of the cup while walking backward before he can crawl back into bed. David gets lonely waiting for him to self-treat so he opens his arms inviting Patrick to curl back around him. Once he does, this enables David to trace the slope of his nose and the divot above the bow of his lip with a light fingertip, and Patrick’s eyelashes lower as they follow the movement. 

“Tonight was a good night,” David whispers, still feeling a bit overcome even after the earlier levity.

Patrick nods against his chest. “It’s been a good year.”

It has. Because even after a year of being in business and almost two of being together, spending so many minutes and hours in close proximity, David’s heart still skitters in his chest every time he touches Patrick, every time he kisses Patrick, every time he opens the office door and sees Patrick sitting behind the still-not-regal-enough-for-him desk.

Tonight isn’t the first night he’s looked at Patrick and seen _forever_ , nor is it even the first time he’s thought about getting married. Moving in together eight months ago was the first step and right now feels like the perfect time to make the next one. He’ll start looking for a ring, maybe plan his own set of surprises.

Because the best part of the last year, for David’s money, is that the future has never once seemed like it is too much to want. 

* * *

The next morning Patrick is up early, gifting David a breakfast of crispy, buttery potatoes and farm fresh eggs covered in heaps of cheese. David’s coffee smells of the cocoa powder it was lovingly sprinkled with as he slept in.

It’s all laid out beautifully on a tray decorated with yet more origami flowers, and Patrick nestles in at his side, picking potatoes off the plate and popping them into his mouth as David moons over the perfect softness of the eggs. It is a blissful and clear morning, sunlight dappling the room and setting Patrick’s more coppery highlights ablaze. They’ve both managed to pull on sweats and t-shirts; they must have gotten the t-shirts switched because Patrick’s hangs a bit loose and David’s fits a bit snug. 

They lounge in bed with the newspaper, David reading to Patrick from the Business pages as he perches on David’s shoulder, one of their favorite lazy morning traditions. He glances down at the familiar line of Patrick’s nose, at the curve of his lips, and he knows more than just the eggs are perfect.

David takes another bite and exhales rapturously, hand knocking into something else on the tray that he hadn’t noticed at first. It’s an origami box—long, rectangular, and slender—and Patrick notices David noticing. 

David picks it up, removing the delicate lid and finding four intricately folded paper rings carefully lined up inside. “Ohmygod.” 

Patrick has moved off his shoulder now and he is starting to maneuver his way onto his knee. “David, will you--

“Wait, stop! This isn’t how I planned it!” David blurts, still clutching the box. Patrick is half in the air. “Okay full disclosure, I was more in the mood-boarding stage but...Patrick, will you marry me?”

Patrick smiles like he’s just encountered a slightly dangerous person on the train who he doesn’t want to provoke. “Okay so I know we didn’t rehearse this but that was my line.” He must decide to forego the knee because he ends up sort of leaning back on the side on the bed. “I would like the record to show that I was well on my way to asking _you_ first.”

“What record? Are we in court?”

Patrick’s lip twitches the way it does when he happy-frowns. “Should we be?”

David runs a light finger over one of the delicate rings. “Well if we are, the record will accurately reflect that I asked you to marry me over breakfast in bed.”

“Wow, those must have been some eggs.” Patrick’s smile widens. David doesn’t think either of them has stopped smiling since last night. “But if I could, I’d like to submit the presence of those paper rings into evidence?”

“I will stipulate to both the presence and the perfection of the paper rings, and I will treasure them always.”

“I’d like that very much,” Patrick says, pulling a velvet box out from under his pillow. “But I think these might last longer.”

David opens it to find four equally perfect gold rings and he only half-sobs with joy. It’s definitely undignified and he would change nothing about it.

Patrick watches him expectantly. “So is that a yes to marrying me? Because otherwise I have another court appearance I need to get to in the kitchen with a bottle of whiskey.”

“Yes, of course, I love you, yes.” David kisses him, deep and full and right. He pulls back, examining Patrick’s face. His husband’s face. “So are we going to need to hire a bedroom stenographer at some point?”

“That depends. Maybe for our one year wedding anniversary? It’s still paper.” Patrick laughs, that throaty, wheezy laugh that David loves. David kisses him again, the eight rings clasped between them. “I think…” His eyes turn from joking to ominously sincere. “What I was going to say before was that this...this has been, hands down, the best year of my life. And I didn’t know how good the best would feel, before. Not when I was on stage two years ago, miserable, when I knew things had to be better, and not even when I woke up this morning, knowing what I was planning, and saw you wearing my t-shirt.”

David tugs at the hem where it rides up over his hip. Patrick bends to kiss the exposed skin. “It’s very soft and it smells like you. Plus the shoulders are nice and stretched out? So.”

Recognition flickers in Patrick’s eyes as he rises back up to meet David. “Ah, so you do it on purpose.”

“Mhm, I can neither confirm nor deny. We’ll take it up at our next hearing.” David kisses Patrick’s cheek. He admires one of the thick gold bands on his finger. He tries one on Patrick, too. It fits too well to take off of him. “Also this is too much in one weekend; you should spread these kinds of surprises out. It sets the bar _very_ high for my birthday.”

“I promise your birthday will have...fireworks and confetti cannons at a minimum. I just wanted to ask you while everyone was still in town so we could have a proper engagement dinner,” Patrick says as David kisses his throat, his jaw, the lobe of his ear. “And I’ve had those ready for a while,” he gestures to the paper rings. “Just so you know.”’

David does. He really does know how ready they both are for this. The more he knows about Patrick, the more ready he is. David basks in the glow of the easy ceremony of it all, gazing down at the three golden rings on his fingers as he holds Patrick close. 

David picks up the origami box and kisses Patrick again. “But you know I’d still marry you with paper rings, right?”

“I know.”

* * *

They’re married the following September, with most of their trivia team as members of their wedding party and Joan as flower girl. Tennessee is absent because she moved to the United States six months before to live with her boyfriend, the improbably named Missouri.

“I don’t know why she’d leave everything behind for him. It’s like the Civil War when they’re together,” David says, irritated. 

“David, the state of Missouri was neutral during the Civil War.” 

“No one likes a pedant, Patrick.” David scowls but his expression contains no malice or heat.

“I’m sorry but we’re playing a game here and there are literally points for accuracy.”

“Okay then remind me again why we let Ray host trivia at our wedding reception?” David asks, even though he knows exactly why.

“We got to the final round without any other marital strife, so let’s chalk this one up as a win, okay?” Patrick kisses David’s knuckle, the one with the thin gold wedding band. “In trivia and in health? In richer or in trivia? I don’t remember where precisely we fit it into the vows.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll keep ‘em all.” 

Ray turns off _Let’s Stay Together_ and reads the last answer of Vermont (The Green Mountain state), which they have, of course, gotten correct.

“Boom, baby!” Patrick shouts, high-fiving David and then kissing him for good measure. “One more and we’ll have this all wrapped up.”

“You don’t feel the slightest bit badly that we’re playing against a team with your grandmother on it and we’re wiping the floor with her?”

“Well, we’re also playing Hook Line and Thinker and Ronnie and my evil dentist cousin...okay, I probably shouldn’t have called Nana a loser. But. She started the chirping naming her team Suck It Patrick. I just finished it.”

David is about to object when Ray starts to read the last question and instead readies his pen above the answer sheet. His brand new shiny husband rubs his back encouragingly. “Our last question in Food: The Italian aperitif Cynar is flavored with what large, unopened flower bud and relative of the thistle?”

Patrick’s sparse eyebrow arches. “He couldn’t have given us a softball on our wedding day?”

David waves him off. “I may not play cricket, but I know the answer is artichoke.”

“And you’re not spelling artichoke A-V-O-C-A-D-O, right?”

He is not. “You promised me we were past that.”

“David, we were past that the moment it happened.” Patrick glows at him and gestures toward the paper, where David still hasn’t written the word. “Write it down David. Or are you not six points sure?”

“We only have one left to bet, but yes, I am definitely six points sure.”

Patrick’s eyes don’t leave David’s face as he leans over to brush his lips against his. David returns his husband’s kiss, forgetting the room, the game, the question. “Yeah, David, me too.”

They emerge from their wedding reception victorious, in more ways than one.

In the end, Patrick does end up joining another band with some friends that he makes at the local LGBTQ2IA+ gathering he goes to monthly. Shut the Folk Up plays at birthday bashes and weddings and carnivals and David attends every show, the proud husband of the lead singer. And sometimes they even travel the province a bit, playing far-off places like Sudbury and Patrick’s alma mater and Cedar Grove, and every time Patrick leaves, he is very clear on where he wants to be:

Home.

**Author's Note:**

> The Button Down’s Playlist  
> Jolene-Dolly Parton  
> Heart of Gold-Neil Young  
> XO-Beyonce  
> Handle with Care- The Traveling Wilburys  
> True Colors- Cyndi Lauper  
> All Will Be Well-The Gabe Dixon Band  
> The Book of Love-Peter Gabriel  
> 2 Atoms in a Molecule-Noah & The Whale  
> Naive Melody (This Must Be the Place)- The Talking Heads  
> This Will Be Our Year-Lowland Hum  
> Thank U-Alanis Morissette  
> Paper Rings-Taylor Swift  
> Let’s Stay Together-Al Green
> 
> So many heartfelt thanks to my magnificent betas [vivianblakesunrisebay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianblakesunrisebay/pseuds/vivianblakesunrisebay/works) and [Distractivate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Distractivate/pseuds/Distractivate), both for fabulous suggestions, copious cheerleading, and frantic last minute workshopping. 
> 
> Thank you also to TINN for the quick prompt that became a Thing, and all of your assistance—you came in clutch when I couldn’t seem to get these two out of the shower and into the bed and you made it TENDER.


End file.
